Blank Slate
by vine
Summary: Nations need to forget, even if they don't want to. And with memories gone, what do feelings have to hold on to? Shadows of people they used to know.
1. Prologue, Greece

_Prologue: Midnight_

It is December 31st, 1999. A man sits in front of ruins younger than him, as he watches the sun set, and tries to ignore the obvious presence approaching him from behind.

The stranger stands a few meters back, impatiently indulging in this game of waiting for a couple of precious minutes, but his patience has never been as deep as the Greek's in front of him.

"What are you-"

"Nice night."

Turkey almost sits down next to him, but he has always enjoyed standing over this man, so even if the ground looks so very tempting, he holds his ground. His eyes flicker back and forth, hidden and bright. "I thought the Egyptian would be here."

"Left."

Another long silence, and Turkey actually feels unnerved by the man beside him, whose eyes are almost shut, as if he's dozing away this last night on earth. He's lucky the Grecian isn't looking at him. He doubts his mask would be enough to hide his envy in the man's indifference.

"You're sca-"

"Sit down."

The two statements are said at the same time, and Turkey huffs in annoyance. He's actually refusing to talk about it? Selfish Greek. He shouldn't have come here.

But... There was nowhere else he could have gone. No one else, really. No one close anymore.

Here they sit, two old men waiting for the end of the world, nothing even left to say goodbye to but their hate for each other. Because their past will always be there. It's all the stuff between the lines of the history books that disappears tonight. The end of the world cannot change history. It just restarts it.

Too much silence. Too much time for thinking, regret. Turkey clears his throat. "Will you miss anyone?"

"...yes."

"Little Asian boy?" You creep.

There is no answer. Turkey gloats in this, this last point, that means he has won. This game they've played for who knows how long. He's finally won.

It doesn't feel like victory, though. He just feels more alone.

Silence. They listen to the land breath around them.

"You're not going home?"

Turkey shakes his head. "I'll wake up there anyways."

Greece looks contemplative for a long minute. Well, he always does, but Turkey knows his real expressions, after this long. This usually bothers him, this familiarity with the man he hates more than anyone, but for some reason it does not even twinge at his annoyance. Not tonight.

"Good morning," he finally says, eyes almost fully closed.

Knowing the man couldn't see him at this point, Turkey lets his shoulders relax in relief. If he were to give credit to Greece for anything, it would be his way of looking at things differently. Good morning is so much easier than a good bye. "Good morning."

One minute left. There is a wave of midnight, slowly reaching across the world, and Turkey feels it touching his borders. Greece would feel it in a few seconds, but by then, Turkey would already be gone. Turkey wonders if Greece has figured out why he came here yet. But it doesn't matter. Midnight overwhelms Turkey, and there is a soft sigh.

If Greece were to turn around, he would see the man fade away. But he doesn't turn. He closes his eyes, and lets himself fall asleep on his mother's grave.

"Good morning, Mother."


	2. Canada

_Chapter One: Canada (January 1st, 2000)_

He wakes up. It's cold, and when he breaths out, he can watch the air leave his mouth in a cloud.

It's so cold, but somehow he realizes he doesn't mind.

Standing up on unsteady feet, he looks around with wide eyes. For a moment, he can't tell where he is at all. There are waterfalls above him, forest around him, but also vast snowy tundras, a jungle of concrete, oceans crashing on either side. He feels so big, so huge and powerful and-

The loneliness is crippling when it hits. His vision goes dark, completely black, as he finds himself gasping for breath. He is huge and alone and he can't remember how this came to be.

He doesn't know how long he flounders in this empty darkness, reaching out for something that isn't there. Time doesn't seem to be relevant here, and so when a shiver of brightest purple cuts through his vision, he can't be sure it has just appeared, or if it only took him forever to notice it. Now he stares, transfixed, as it expands, twisting into a ribbon of greens and blues and reds. All bright, and he can't help but smile, because it is hard to remember one is alone when surrounded by colours, come to life.

This time, he can tell it is a long time before he comes to the realization that his eyes are closed. As he slowly opens them, blinking away the last of the aurora's lights, he is met with a familiar sight. A small polar bear is pawing at his foot. He is standing in his bedroom, at his capital house, and it is January 1st, 2000. The night before is a little fuzzy, though he must have made it home alright, after spending the milestone new years celebrating with his people, seeing as he is standing in his room now. He didn't, however, seem to quite make it into his sleeping clothing last night, or even into bed. The bed is untouched and he is still in the red sweater he was wearing the day before. He really can't remember any details about last night at all, not after shouting happy new years with hundreds of others, in-

Well, it must have been in his capital. That's where he is now, after all. He must have not gone up to Toronto after all.

What had he drank that knocked him back on his ass so hard last night? It doesn't feel like he has much of a hangover. Just a slightly uncomfortable pressure behind his eyes. He stretches slowly, heading downstairs and deciding to let the strange lack of memories last night slide for his now. He's not pain, physical or national, so nothing terrible had happened. And his boss gave him the day off, so he may as well spend it with Kuma, and in the fresh snow that fell last night. He can even indulge in a huge stack of pancakes to start off the day, if he wants to.

And he does just this, making them for both him and a bored looking Kuma. There is an odd nagging sensation, as though he should be sharing these with someone else, but there is no one else, of course. His brain's still a little muggy, after all. So he eats his breakfast in silence, thoughts drifting, ignoring that hint of loneliness still haunting him from his odd dreams of the night before. He is Canada, home of almost thirty four million people. How can he ever feel lonely?

That morning, the phone doesn't ring. Why would it? His boss has no reason to call him, not on this day off, and there is no one else who would be calling. He doesn't even think anyone else knows his number. Canada is a unique being, after all. Almost like a spirit, of this country, the True North. Strong and free. So of course, the phone not ringing does not strike him as odd in the least.

The phone will not ring, looking for a friend, for a very long time. And when it does, Canada will have no memory of the voice on the other line.

_"Birdie? Where has everyone gone? What's going on?"_


	3. Italy

Germany has a routine.

It is rare that he breaks it. True, there are special occasions, where he allows for his routine to be altered. But still, he chooses this. It is very rare indeed that someone interrupts him, after all. His boss is predictable, and if anything big is happening in his country, he feels it before the boss calls him about it, anyway. So often Germany can go through certain parts of his day on autopilot, thinking of something entirely different as muscle memory guides him through cooking or a morning work out.

Sometimes, though, he catches himself. His routine has not changed much in the last few years, not that he can remember, but sometimes he looks down at his lunch, only to realize that he has set the table for two. The other plate glares at him, just as full as his own plate is, and he struggles to figure out why he's served it. Extra food was just a waste, after all. And Germany was not one for waste.

He eats his own plate. Then stares at the other, waiting for much too long. He almost disrupts his whole schedule because of it, this one oddity. Then, shaking his head, he puts the extra in a container, and stores it away in his fridge. Perhaps he'll eat it for dinner.

He does this every time he makes extra, which is at least once a week. He never gets around to eating the leftovers.

Morning workouts are also strange. There is something off about them. They feel too easy, like he is hardly working at all. So he adds extra laps, trying to push himself. Slowly, the feeling of not doing enough, of it being too easy, disappears between his laboured breathing and straining muscles. But he makes note of this, all the same.

If only he could recall when these things started occurring, the extra plate and the easy workouts. Then perhaps he could pinpoint what had changed. But there is nothing. Germany hardly ever changes his routine, after all. So he continues, thinking that perhaps it was just a hint of confusion, after the stressful, unsure transition into this millennium. He hadn't thought the world was going to end, of course. But enough of his people had to have made him uneasy. Nothing had changed, but maybe just that expectation had been enough to throw him off.

Everything would be okay in a month or so. Everything would go back to normal.

A mop that he doesn't remember ever receiving sits in the back of his closet. He makes and eats pasta every Friday night. He, as far as he remembers, never was taught how to make pasta. He never liked pasta. But things change. People change, even if they don't remember it.

* * *

And yet, some people do.

Some people remember that they have changed, even if they don't remember how. Some people lay in bed, staring out at their country, clutching their pillow, because they know they are supposed to be holding tight to someone, not something. They just can't remember the person's name.

They loves their country, they really do. They doesn't want to ever leave Italy, not for the world. But it feels like they're forgotten something outside their borders, in a land they've never been. And they know they are forgetting something inside their borders, but are too afraid to check. In fact, they can hardly even bear to look in a mirror. Sometimes, they close their eyes, and they catch a glimpse of the people they are missing. Bigger bodies, caring, protecting. But this can't be right. So they cook and they garden and they sometimes think of visiting the other half of their country, but something in their blood freezes at that, frightening them.

It takes a few months. But eventually, one wanders north and one wanders south, and they meet in the middle, eyes wide as they stare into the mirror that is each other.

The North blinks, feeling very confused, and reaches out to poke the South in the shoulder.

"Idiota! Stop that..." He pushes the finger aside, and then his eyes go wide. Because he's starting to remember, and he can see in his brother's eyes that he is, too.

South tenses, as North lunges at him, wrapping his arms around him tight.

"Fratello! Fratello, I missed you!"

Because North did miss his brother. He just hadn't realized this is what he's been missing. His other half. Of course! It makes so much sense.

And South can't help but return the embrace, because there's no one else who knows them, and he has nothing to hide from his other half, not really. Sure, he pretends to be a little reluctant, but North doesn't even seem to notice.

"Idiota..." he mutters, but he doesn't mean it. He never does.

And so Italy reunites. The two halfs laugh softly, wondering secretly how they could ever forget about each other, even if it was only for a few months. But the idea that they ever had forgotten is already slipping away. Lovino and Feliciano Vargas, South and North Italy, are together again. There is nothing forgotten, here.

* * *

Germany stares at that extra plate of pasta, and tries to remember why he served it. And Spain stares out his window, waiting for it to be warm enough for tomatoes again, but forgetting why it is that he is looking forward to it in the first place. And months pass. And nothing changes. Not in this part of the world.


	4. Sweden

_Chapter Three: Sweden (February 17, 2000)_

Sweden has a nice house. It is a bit large for just one person, but he supposes it is appropriate for someone like him to have a grander sort of house.

Someone like him. What a strange phrasing. There is no one like him. Just Sweden.

For the most part, Sweden only uses a few rooms in the house. The kitchen, struggling to cook food he half remembers and often leaves half-eaten. The living room, where what he does there hardly counts as living, sitting and watching the news of the world. He finds that it's painful to watch news of any place but his own, so he gets up and clicks the tv off after the local news. On good nights he watches hockey, and his plate is empty, belly full. Those are good nights, because he goes up to the bedroom that is his, and is actually able to sleep. He doesn't know why he has guest rooms, because they really are never used. Then again, so is his own bedroom. On good days, he falls into the covers and sleeps until the morning, but on bad nights the bed feels much too large, and he tosses and turns and finally just gives up, going downstairs again and sleeping fitfully on the couch. He thinks about asking his boss about it, but it isn't something worth bothering his boss about.

This is not something that is wrong with his country, Sweden realizes. This is purely him. Something is wrong with him, and not being able to blame it in odd happenings within his borders is a scary thing. Something that has never happened to him before-

_his heart swells, and he wonders why, surely his people can't be making him this happy, this is coming right from him, just him_

-and it's almost terrifying. He needs to rationalize this feeling, and so he takes to blaming it on the room. The locked room, the one he doesn't try to find the key for. He can't even look at the door, not since the first time, when curiosity had him peering under the door, glasses sliding off his nose as he tried to make out what, exactly, he was seeing.

Not much was identifiable. But there was what looked like a hat, a little sailor's hat, a few feet away from the door itself. Sweden saw nothing else because that was enough- he walked to the bathroom, turned on the shower as hot as it would go, and stood under it as it scalded his skin, wishing he knew why the hat made him shake like he was standing naked in the snow. He hadn't looked at the room since, but that chill still remained, something he can't banish, even as summer hits his country, and he celebrates by spending less and less time at home.

Instead, he spends his time wandering the country, leaving his car at home- he never uses that thing- and instead relying on public transportation and his own too feet. It is slower, yes, but this way he missed nothing. And there is something comforting, being surrounded by the bustle of your people. Even Sweden, who is not exactly social, found it pleasant. Like being wrapped up in a warm security blanket. It was only when he is hiking through some dense woods, nearing the Finnish border, that he realizes where he has been getting slowly pulled towards. Out of the crowds, it's painfully obvious. THe border is covered in snow, invisible to most, but it stands out like a brand in Sweden's mind. Still, Finland looks no different from Sweden, really. And it had once been his, a long time ago. There should be no reason why he can't just... step over the border. Explore a bit. He had never been curious about his neighbours before, and can't recall when it started, but this new-found curiosity is not just a trivial want. It's an ache, a hand clenched around his lungs, bitingly cold.

The abandoned hat, in the locked room, comes to mind. He ignores this.

He stands there, staring at that border, for longer than he cares to admit. Long enough for his body to go numb, even. before he finally steps closer. As he teeters a few feet away from that line, he frowns. What if he disappears, when he leaves his own land? He doesn't like the thought of ending, of forgetting everything and being forgotten. It scares him in a way he can't quite articulate. Like he was ever great at articulating in the first place.

Then reason catches up with him. He isn't going to vanish. He's been on front lines before, after all. He had sailed with vikings. Borders were never a problem then. Though they changed more often, back then. He could almost recall-

His foot steps across the line. And his thought is cut off by the distinct sound of a bullet whizzing by him.

"Don't do that!"

That voice isn't familiar. He's disappointed, but doesn't know why. He's standing in Finland now, he supposes, and feels very awkward, as he tries to spot where the bullet came from. And the voice.

"Wh't?'

"That! Stepping over the border like that!"

The voice isn't familiar, but it is pleasant. Sweden should probably be concerned about the fact that it's owner has a gun, but he can't bring himself to get tense over it. For some reason, he very much doubts that the voice will shoot him. Even though he's done it before.

The thought is so ridiculous, when it floats through his head, that he doesn't even dwell on it. In fact, he forgets it almost the instant he dismisses it. Instead, he opens his mouth. He means to ask the voice how he knew exactly where the border was, but his lips form other words.

"'m Berwald."

There is a moment of confused silence. Sweden thinks he hears a gasp, but he's not sure.

"Why... what? Why do you think I want to know your name?" This time, the sharp inhale is obvious. "...Tino."

"Nice t'meet y'." He's not sure Tino will understand. People usually have trouble understanding him. He's used to it by now. But there is rustling to his left, and Tino steps out from behind a tree, his gun- a sniper rifle, Sweden notes with surprise. He definitely missed on purpose, then- resting casually on his shoulder. He's under-dressed for the weather, but so is Sweden, so he can't exactly comment.

He smiles shyly, even though his eyes are weary. "I suppose I should say the same, then? Though you did just jump my border." His voice gets harder, but... he looks so young. And though his voice is strong and his eyes are dangerous, his expression can't be described as anything but a pout. Sweden is unsure of what to say, so he just stares at the boy.

"...S'rry."

And Tino stares at Berwald, and Berwald stares at Tino, as they both entertain strange thoughts along the lines of 'he's what I was waiting for?' and 'he's the one who pulled me here?' If either of them believed in soul mates, they may have taken this all as a sign. But they are not idealistic teenagers. They are nations, and such notions are just silly, at their ages. So the fact that Tino blushes, as he shoots a still-cautious smile at the other, is merely because of the awkwardness of the situation. Of course.

"Would you like to join me for some coffee?" A soft laugh. Sweden takes a step closer, almost without realizing. "Consider it an apology. For shooting at you."

Tino certainly doesn't look sorry, but that's okay. Sweden nods, a muttered 'y'please.' escaping his mouth. As Tino begins to lead him away, talking almost absentmindedly about how he hopes his cabin is still warm, Sweden feels a sad pull somewhere inside him, as though his country is trying to hold on. But he'll only be gone for a little while. He doesn't notice that the other pull, the one that made him leave his house and wander aimlessly, is completely gone now. He does, however, want to reach out and touch the other's shoulder, or perhaps even hold their hand. But that's just stupid. So he refrains. For now.


End file.
